


Possible (23/39?)

by Mexta



Series: Possible [23]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, post-412
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 11:59:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2308922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mexta/pseuds/Mexta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Downstairs at the Jackhammer</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possible (23/39?)

With Ian on the dance floor, Mickey braced himself for more unwelcome attention. He took a quick scan around the room but the crowd seemed thinner now, and while people were still friendly, the larger group dynamic had dissipated a bit. A couple of men met his eye with looks of obvious interest, and Mickey glowered back in response; but in truth it was purely reflexive. There was actually something strangely appealing about being the subject of such open admiration.

Unlike the clientele at the club where Ian worked, a lot of the men here didn't look so different from himself. One guy, about his own age, seemed vaguely familiar; had they worked together on a roofing project some time? 

When the man caught him staring and gave him a friendly wink, Mickey jumped and turned away, suddenly self-conscious in his movements. He paced beside the dance floor, watching Ian mingle comfortably with the other men on the floor -- not in the showy way he had at work but languidly, like he just wanted to stretch out for a while. When other dancers approached him, he smiled politely and moved away; Mickey didn't feel any need to intervene. 

He went back to the bar for another beer, wondering how long Ian would be able to keep it up. When he started to pay for the drink, the bartender shook his head and nodded over Mickey's shoulder. Mickey turned, startled, and saw a bearded man in motorcycle chains watching him; when the man caught Mickey's eye he held up his own glass in the universal gesture of invitation and camaraderie. 

Jesus, these guys just didn't let up. Mickey scowled and started to push his bills more firmly across the bar, but the bartender had turned away, and when he glanced back the biker dude gave an amused shrug, like he couldn't be blamed for trying. 

Well, free beer was free beer. Mickey lifted his mug and, after a moment, nodded at the man, who, now that he thought about it, maybe wasn't so bad after all. 

Next thing he knew Ian had grabbed his arm again. "C'mon," he said, face flushed a little from the recent exertion, hair damp and upright where he'd pushed it back from his forehead. "Let's go downstairs."

Mickey still didn't know what downstairs meant, but Ian was already pulling him through the crowd and frankly, Mickey was too curious by now to resist. The door at the end of the room opened to a short passage and a flight of stairs, but Ian paused at the top and inexplicably began pulling his shirt over his head.

"The fuck you doing?" Mickey asked.

"Don't have leather, so we gotta go shirtless," Ian said, as though that were a logical explanation. "C'mon, Mick." He dropped his own sweat-dampened shirt on the stair railing, where a variety of others hung, and tugged at Mickey's buttons. "Time to take it off."

Mickey pushed Ian's hands away roughly. "You kiddin' me?"

"You're lucky it's not a weekend," Ian said, smiling. "Or it'd be shirt and pants." 

He waited a second, while Mickey didn't move, then shrugged and started toward the stairs. "Okay, well -- I'm goin' in. You can wait up here if you want."

No way was Mickey letting Ian enter whatever shithole awaited at the bottom of those stairs on his own. He reached up to his shirt buttons. "Jesus Christ. Wait, then."

Ian turned back to him with a grin, and Mickey knew he'd been bluffed, but what the hell, it was too late now. He undid his shirt and pulled it open. When he hesitated, chewing once on his lip, he felt Ian's warm hand on his chest, then his shoulder, pushing the fabric back and down his arms. Then the shirt was gone, on the railing with the others, and Ian was tripping down the stairs, leaving Mickey no choice but to follow.

Another bouncer guarded the door at the bottom, but he gave them a once-over and moved aside to let them pass. They stepped into an even darker, louder, more smoke-filled room, smaller than the upstairs space but filled with more people. Bodies bumped and brushed against them as he and Ian made their way inside, feeling instinctively for a bit of open space. 

As Mickey's eyes grew used to the dark he didn't know where to look first. Naked flesh stood out in the dark; apparently many patrons had removed more than their shirts, while the rest seemed to favour leather harnesses, vests or chaps over bare skin, and everyone sported serious leather footwear. Groups of two, three or more pressed together around the room, making out or groping or swaying vaguely to the music; here and there figures knelt in front of others; and one large group stood around an object Mickey couldn't place at first.

"Is that a bathtub?" he shouted in Ian's ear.

Ian nodded, like he was trying not to laugh, and steered Mickey over to a relatively quiet corner. The musky smell of sweat, leather, and sex surrounded them, mingling with the overamped bass of the sound system, and the occasional glimpse of male body parts; Mickey started to feel like he was in a porn movie. It was hard not to get caught up in the sensations. 

He felt a hand close lightly around his cock and almost groaned before he looked up and saw Ian smiling down at him. "Pretty hard for someone who says he's not interested," Ian mouthed into his ear.

"Who says I'm not interested?" Mickey growled, pulling Ian hard against him. They kissed, open-mouthed and forceful, but when Mickey reached down to grope Ian's dick he realized, once again, that Ian was not reciprocating.

"It's the meds," Ian said, pulling away slightly. He sounded wistful, and Mickey wished he could take the last few minutes back completely.

"'S'alright," he mumbled, releasing Ian and leaning back against the wall again. 

Ian turned and slid over a little to rest against the wall beside him. They watched the scene for a while in silence, Mickey wondering how soon he could persuade Ian to leave. His dick still ached, and all he could think about was getting alone in the bathroom at home to relieve the pressure. 

A couple of older men approached them, more aggressively this time, asking if they wanted to "play", and Mickey sent them away with a few cursed threats. But the men soon rounded up more willing participants and started a bit of a group show in the middle of the room, while other patrons formed a circle around them. Watching the performance did nothing to help Mickey's frustration. 

Ian went to the bar for more drinks, and Mickey shifted around uncomfortably. The overwhelming aura of leather and testosterone, masculine flesh and prominent bulges, would have been a lot more entertaining if had something to look forward to besides his own fist. 

And then a low voice rumbled against his ear. "Hey. How's my friend who definitely doesn't wanna dance with me?"

Mickey looked up sharply and saw Sam, now shirtless under his leather vest, muscular chest gleaming with sweat, standing beside him. "Ay," Mickey said, glancing around quickly. "Ian's just -- uh, just ... "

Sam nodded toward the bar. "He's over there getting drinks. Busy tonight. He might be a while."

In the crowd by the bar, Ian looked up, saw them, and gave a brief wave, making no effort to leave his spot. Mickey cursed him inwardly. 

"So you made it downstairs, huh?" Sam said, leaning a shoulder against the wall beside him. "First time?"

"Uh, yeah," Mickey nodded, trying to look unimpressed. 

But Sam's smile was surprisingly warm. "It's a scene. Takes some getting used to." He lifted his fist sideways, and expertly tapped a small trace of white onto it from a tiny vial in his other hand. "Here, this'll help till you get your drink."

Mickey leaned over gratefully and took a quick bump. Probably just what he needed to take the edge off his hard-on, he thought. 

Sam finished up, the vial disappeared, and his hand brushed over Mickey's hip as they stood close together. "So ... " he said, leaning in to make himself heard, "Ian seems like a great boyfriend."

"Uh ... yeah." Mickey nodded, wondering if the touch had been accidental.

"Too bad about his ... condition."

Jesus, how much had Ian told him? Mickey had no idea what to say, but a minute later he felt it again, fingers more deliberate now, stretching across the front of his jeans. 

"Not much fun for you," Sam said, and there it was again, a hand closing over his cock. But this time it wasn't Ian's. 

Mickey thought he opened his mouth to protest, but somehow there were warm lips pressing against him instead. Not Ian's.

And then Ian's voice beside him, Ian's arm around his waist. "Hey, guys. How're you doing?" 

Mickey snapped his head back and tried to step away, out of Sam's grip, but the wall was in the way. "I was just -- "

But Ian was smiling, fingers curling into Mickey's hip. "It's okay, Mickey. Sam's happy to help out a friend. Aren't you, Sam?"

"If that's what you want." Sam dropped his hand and stood facing both of them, his face suddenly serious and watchful. 

"Think it's just what he needs." Ian handed Mickey a bottle, and Mickey took a couple of gulps, more to stall for time than anything else.

Sam made the quick movement with the vial again and held out his fist to Ian politely. Mickey felt a sudden pang of anxiety and half-started to protest, but Ian shook his head. "Not a good idea. Here -- " He took the beer bottle back from Mickey. "I'll hold on to this while you guys go have fun."

"The fuck?" Something seemed to have been decided, and Mickey couldn't quite figure out what it was. He felt Sam hook a finger into one of his belt loops and start tugging gently. "Where we goin'?"

"There's a back room," Ian said, as though that explained everything. 

Sam pulled Mickey forward again, and then leaned past him and planted his mouth on Ian's. "You wanna join us, just for fun?"

Ian shook his head, turned toward Mickey and kissed him. Mickey wasn't sure why everyone seemed to be kissing everyone. Now it was his turn with Sam again. And now they were moving again, just him and Sam. Ian receded into the background. Sam's hand slid around Mickey's waist, coaxing him forward, then slipping down to stroke his ass. 

"Ian tells me you like to bottom." Sam's voice came in his ear. "But I'm versatile. Whatever you want." He pushed open a door and now they were in another room, somehow even darker than the one before. Sam steered Mickey expertly, threading his way through a maze of tangled bodies, to a stretch of empty wall. He pushed Mickey backwards against it, leaned down to kiss his mouth, reached for his still-rigid cock and squeezed it, then straightened and, inexplicably stopped.

The beer and the bump had obviously made Mickey a little dizzy, but when Sam stopped what he was doing, he had chance to collect himself. Here he was, up against the wall in the back room of a seedy uptown gay bar, ready to bang with another guy, not Ian, but basically chosen and sanctioned by Ian, for his own benefit. He did have a throbbing hard-on, and the man standing in front of him was young, well-built, and seemed to know what he was doing.

Only now he had stopped, and was watching Mickey with dark, curious eyes. "Last call, man," Sam said finally, bringing his mouth down to Mickey's ear again. "You sure about this?" 

Mickey shut his eyes, thought about his raging dick, about the man in front of him, about his red-headed boyfriend waiting outside. "No," he said suddenly, and then again, more clearly. "No. I'm not -- I don't ... I don't."

To his relief, Sam only smiled, dropped his hand off Mickey's shoulder, and stepped back. "You sure?"

Mickey nodded, more lucid by the second. "I'm fucking sure."

"Go on then." Sam nodded toward the door. "Better get out of here."

Mickey paused, feeling a tiny pang of nebulous responsibility. "Are you -- "

"I'll be fine. I'll find someone else." Already Sam's eyes were exploring the darkness around them. "Tell Ian he's a lucky man."

The door shut behind Mickey, and he saw Ian, waiting where they'd left him, watching the crowd with the bottle in his hand. In a second Mickey was beside him, gripping his arm. "C'mon," he said, as Ian turned toward him in surprise. "We're going home. Now."


End file.
